Whispers
by Disgruntled Peony
Summary: It’s coming. He can’t see it, but he can feel it. He knows it’s coming. And when it does, heaven help his friends, because no one else will be able to.


Title: Whispers

Author: liz_Z

E-mail: liz_Z@secret-agent.com

Category: Drama, Suspense

Rating: PG

Spoilers: An exremely vague reference to the Pilot; other than that zip-ola

Season/Sequel info: Takes place before 'Possessed'

Disclaimer: They're not mine. There, I said it. That simple. They aren't mine. *sigh*

Author's notes: I wrote this while suffering from a very annoying headache. It helped me vent my frustration, and might even have helped to chase the headache away. Then again, that could just as easily have been attributed to the Tylenol... Anyway, if you're looking for mood music to this fic, 'Papercut', 'Break', or just about any other song by Linkin Park will do.

It's coming. He can't see it, but he can feel it. He knows it's coming. And when it does, heaven help his friends, because no one else will be able to.

He remembers the first time it came... It was completely unexpected, at least to him. It fed on his rage, whispered ideas into his head. And like a fool, he listened. He always listens when it comes.

He's powerless to stop the destruction it causes. There's no way for him to defend himself against it; it's different every time. But the result is always the same. He loses control, and it takes over. And it tries to destroy everything he holds dear, piece by piece, person by person.

The scariest thing is that when it happens, he enjoys it. It's intoxicating, the ultimate rush. While he's in that state, he can't understand how he could ever want to be any other way.

And here it comes, preparing for the first assault on his sanity. Just an echo in the back of his brain, but it reminds him of what is going to come next. And the whispers, the whispers are beginning. He can't understand what they're saying, but he can hear them fluttering on the edges of his consciousness, waiting for the perfect opportunity to swoop down and pin him to the ground.

He has to stop this, he can't let it happen. The counteragent... He needs the counteragent. It can help him, it can keep the madness at bay...

And now he's up for round two. It takes a different approach this time, a little more insistent, a little more difficult to ignore. The kind of insistence that brings his hand up to the back of his neck before he even realizes he's moved. If nothing else, he can say this about the madness: it knows how to get his attention.

Things are a little more confusing now, not quite as clear as before. The whispers are seeing to that. He still can't understand them, but they're louder now. Louder and more confusing, more jumbled. They make it harder for him to focus his thoughts, harder to remember why he wants to avoid this. They weaken him, making him that much less prepared for the next attack.

And, sure enough, it comes, flaring through his consciousness, sending white lightning through his skull. It was toying with him before; now it is very much in earnest. Before he knows it he's down on the floor, gasping at the ferocity of its attack, trying to ride out the storm. And for that brief moment, the voices aren't whispering. They're shouting at the top of their lungs. Terrible, horrible things, things he's thought in the past but tried to ignore. There's no way of ignoring them now.

Finally the voices seem to retreat and the insistence stops. He pulls himself to his feet, gasping from the viciousness of the attack. He won't be able to hold out much longer. It's hard to think, hard to keep from listening to the voices. Because he can hear their whispers clearly now, he knows what they're saying. And the more clearly he hears the voices, the harder it is to withstand the attacks.

He has to stop himself. He can't let this happen again. He has to find a way to keep himself from hurting anyone, from causing more pain. But he can't think, he can't think of how to stop himself... he can't tie himself up, and there are no handcuffs within easy reach, no closets he can lock himself in.

And then, before he's ready, the attack comes again. It is by far the most painful one yet, and the voices are screaming, and he can't think and he can't think and he just wants it to stop...

And then it's over. Just like that, it stops. The voices are still there, loud as ever. But he doesn't mind anymore. He welcomes it, in fact. It's a familiar sensation, and he's heard all the whispers before. Well, most of them anyway. There are always a few newcomers.

There's a low buzzing running through his brain, a gentle ongoing sensation. It's not entirely unpleasant; it makes it easier to think. Or maybe it makes it easier not to think, he's not sure. It just makes things easier.

A smile spreads across his face, and he starts to laugh. It's been so long since he got this feeling, this rush, this oh-so-familiar sensation. He loves it. It empowers him, makes it easier for him to see what he want. Makes it easier to see how he can get it, too. The voices help things along, whispering suggestions, ideas, thoughts in his ear. They're all so appealing, and he's waited to act on them for so long. Maybe it's time he stopped waiting and started doing.

But before the fun can begin, he senses it. He smells it! The one thing that can keep him from enjoying himself, the one thing that can destroy his newfound freedom. He turns, and there it is, blue and shiny and inside of a long needle, just begging to slide under his skin. No, no, no, not again!

It's calling to him. It's pulling all of his attention toward it. Everything else fades once the needle comes into view, even the voices. All of his attention is focused on that one iridescent spot of blue.

He wants it. He hates it. Why does it always have to come around and spoil things? Why does it have to call him, why HIM? And why is he walking toward it?

Needle makes contact with skin, breaking the surface and piercing his skin, his vein, his very consciousness. The blue liquid makes it way like fire through his body, refusing to be ignored. The sudden silence, the lack of whispers, is too much; everything fades to black.

He wakes up to blessed silence. The voices are gone. The whispers have silenced. But he still remembers what he has done, what he intended to do. What he will do again if he doesn't find a way to stop this from happening again. And he knows in his heart of hearts that the whispers will return.


End file.
